


A Touch of Silk

by Whreflections



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bottom Hannibal, Discussion of Non-Con Fantasies, Hannibal in Lingerie, Lingerie, M/M, Original Graham-Lecter Dogs, Switching, in a scene, though really it's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-05 19:49:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6720220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whreflections/pseuds/Whreflections
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will sees a silk chemise and can't help but imagine how good Hannibal would look in it.  Because Hannibal is Hannibal, he knows...and <i>also</i> because he's Hannibal, he's not about to let the issue go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Touch of Silk

**Author's Note:**

> I had notes and AO3 ate them. Maybe I'll make more later but I'm in a hurry, T.T

The first time Hannibal mentions it there is no introduction, no lead beyond the soft chop of his blade as he cuts through crisp carrot.  Will is reading off Hannibal’s iPad, scrolling one handed where it’s propped with the cover so he can nurse his tumbler of whiskey with the other.  On the floor, Ida’s ribcage rises and falls beneath his bare foot, the occasional swing of it a lazy approximation of petting. 

“What was it about the chemise this afternoon that aroused you?”  For all the mildness of his voice, Hannibal could be asking Will if he wants mushrooms in the casserole. 

Will chokes on his whiskey, glass tilted right as the words register.  He sets it down against the tile on the island hard enough that it’d earn him a reproachful glance from Hannibal at most moments- for all he knows it does then, too; he’s too busy breathing to really notice.  When he does look up at Hannibal, he faces calm, faintly raised eyebrows.  Will’s are damn near brushing his hairline. 

“I…what?”

Hannibal’s knife doesn’t skip a beat, effortlessly swishing across the board to swipe his pile of carrots aside before starting on the next.  “It was red silk with white lace; the mannequin caught your eye while you waited.” 

In truth, the image had flashed in his mind the minute Hannibal mentioned it, but the description does pull it back up with a little more vivid clarity.  The mannequin had stood at a tilt, accentuating the slit up one thigh, red silk pooling between its legs, flowing over the approximation of small breasts.  He’d seen it while Hannibal was making his final tie selection, and _yes_ , maybe he looked a little long but the store was near empty and it’s been a long time since he saw lingerie like that. 

Better said, it’s been a long time since he’d seen lingerie at _all_. 

The iPad screen has gone black before his hand.  Will swirls his scotch in his glass before he takes a sip, his eyes tracking little circles of carrots as they pile up.  “You were taking a while, so I looked around.  I know you’ve figured out by now I don’t really have that much interest in ties.”  His smile is meant to be disarming, and he’s pretty sure it almost makes it.  His pulse is still erratic, though, and it takes more than an _almost_ to fool Hannibal. 

“I’m well aware of your typical disinterest in the fine points of clothes shopping trips, but boredom’s hardly enough to inspire arousal—“ Hannibal flicks the cap of a carrot further down the counter with an expert twitch of his knife, humor in his eyes when Will glances up to catch them.  “—and I’d say we can both agree I know when you’re aroused.” 

There honestly isn’t a remotely effective argument against that, no. 

His face must say as much, because Hannibal’s hum is pleased as he finishes with the carrots and lifts a bell pepper, his thumb gliding distractingly easily over the skin.  “So we return to my question—what was it about the chemise that aroused you?  Memories, or the object itself?”

Will’s eyes narrowed.  “I don’t miss Molly, if that’s where this is going.”  Didn’t, and hadn’t for a long time.  To be fair, it didn’t even seem right to say he’d ever really missed _her_ at all; what he’d missed about her in the early days had been her easiness, the security of normalcy and quiet that she gave him.  Life with her was comfortable, if muted.  At the beginning of all they’d embarked on after the dragon, he’d missed that comfort.  He could think of her now with mild fondness, and an unattractive sliver of disdain he’d have been loath to admit to, largely aimed at himself, at the man he’d been when he was with her. 

Hannibal’s hands don’t pause, expertly removing the core and scraping seeds out onto his cutting board.  “Whether you miss her or not, you could miss the female form—“  Hannibal held the flat of his knife up in response to Will’s mouth opening, holding him off.  “—however, taking the implied meaning that you don’t, it seems the culprit was the chemise itself?” 

Will’s never used the word ‘chemise’ in his life; he’d have called it a slip or a short nightdress or just _lingerie_ if he referred to it all, but that’s beside the point.  Hannibal’s zeroed in the source with his usual dogged determination, and Will grants concession of that much with a tilt of his head, slight and quickly chased with another draught of scotch.  He’d been sipping at it slow before, but already his glass is almost empty. 

“The combination of silk and lace transmits an air of elegance, a mark of grace and fragility as well as affluence.  The materials are indulgent, as sex is indulgent.”  Sex, silk, and wine, all as honey warm and rich as Hannibal’s voice.  “Combined with societal factors and historic use, the very components become inherently erotic.” 

Will grunts his acceptance, shifts on his stool and is relieved when Ida rolls over and rises up on long legs, her nose bumping his knee.  He downs the rest of his glass and stands before Hannibal can continue, their eyes catching as Hannibal lifts his second pepper.  “I should take the dogs out.  I’ll straighten up a little on the patio, maybe we can have dinner out there?” 

There’s a faint crook to the edge of Hannibal’s mouth that tells him Will’s fooled absolutely no one, not himself and certainly not Hannibal, but he nods and lets him go.  As the sliding door closes behind him and he steps out onto warm brick, he feels strangely like a fish that’s just felt a hook brush his tail on the retreat. 

++++++++

The next time it comes up it’s arguably sneaky, roundabout and two weeks down the line.  Long enough that Will’s no longer waiting for Hannibal to say more, long enough that for all practical purposes he’d have said he’d forgotten the incident entirely.  That is, until he comes to bed after brushing his teeth to find that rather than reading a medical journal or novel Hannibal is shopping on his iPad as he lounges, covers drawn up to his chest. 

He’s shopping for panties.

Will stubs his toe on the nightstand and bites his cheek to keep from yelping, a little easier with such a potent distraction right in front of him.  The pair Hannibal is deliberating over at the moment is a deep hunter green, smooth silk with a swirl of white lace on either hip and along the trim, a white ribbon lacing up the crotch.  Even clearly soft as the model is in the picture, the bulge is undeniable.  Will swallows against the taste of blood in his mouth. 

Hannibal taps the ‘add to cart’ button without ever taking his eyes off the screen, the flick of his fingers sure and easy as he pulls up another tab and keeps searching.  “I purchased a pair of silk panties during my years in medical school as an experiment borne of curiosity.  I was curious as to how it would differ from the experience of wearing silk boxers, and whether I’d enjoy it.” 

Will had wondered, often, if his imagination would be the death of him for a variety of reasons.  The image of a young Hannibal Lecter laid out on a bed in an empty apartment experimentally rubbing at his cock beneath maroon silk isn’t one that had ever come to mind as a danger, but the thought hits him with such a burst of sensation he feels dizzy, nerves fraying out to white noise.  Will feels for the edge of the bed and sinks onto it, initially silent.  Beside him, Hannibal scrolls past a row of pink pairs, each one a variation on exquisitely patterned lace. 

Will wets his lips.  “How’d the experiment turn out?” 

“Very well.  Silk warms well to body heat, and the slide of it against bare skin is particularly enticing.” 

Will’s mind catches there, snagging at that particular patch of information and filing it away.  Later, _much_ later after he’s dissected the issue at hand, he’ll have to revisit the thought of Hannibal clean shaven.  To be honest though, on a first cursory thought he doubts he’d prefer it beyond the initial thrill of novelty.  He’s grown far too fond of raking his fingers through the thick hair on Hannibal’s chest, sinking lower to feel that softness turn wiry beneath his fingers, the scent of his arousal thick there when Will nuzzles between his legs. 

“-altogether a more pleasurable experience than I’d expected, though one I only indulged when I had the opportunity.  There’s a constant low grade level of arousal inherent that’s distracting, though I’m sure it’d fade if I were to take it up as a common practice.  I’ve never tried.  The cut of the cloth naturally resists erections and struggles to hold one; the resulting sensation of constriction and exposure is quite unique.” 

He missed a bit there in his _own_ distraction, but it hardly matters; Will’s got the gist.  Hannibal’s scrolling fingers stop to hover over a pair in navy blue, cut with a dip the middle clearly structured to accentuate the way the head of the wearer’s cock would protrude from the top if he was hard.  It’s far too easy to project them onto Hannibal, to imagine the bizarrely artistic symmetry that would come from his cock peeking out above the trim of black lace, the head in turn peeking out wet and glistening above his foreskin. 

Will’s breath hitches, a sound he tries to hide by shifting in bed though he knows even as he does it there’s no use.  He can feel the hint of heat on his cheeks, the backs of his ears, and besides all that, he’s half hard.  Hannibal has to smell it.  _Jesus_ , it shouldn’t be—  He never thought this was a _thing_ , for him.  Sure, he’d enjoyed lingerie on his partners in the past, but they’d all been women, and even then he’d never felt the odd, tingling heat he feels now, solely brought on by his own imaginings. 

Hannibal nudges his shoulder, lightly, and Will jumps, realizes only then that he’d been studying the edge of the quilt his fingers are clenched around with far too much determination, his breath gone shallow.  Hannibal tilts the iPad toward him, utter innocence in his eyes that tugs at Will despite the fact that he doesn’t buy it for a second.  The image on the screen is a close up on the navy blue’s, the model’s hand cupped over his cock to shield the definition of its shape beneath the silk. 

“It’s hard to say how comfortable these would be for ordinary wear, but at least half the purpose of lingerie is display and aesthetics, and they’d do well for that.  Wouldn’t you say?” 

Will’s throat sticks, clicking when he swallows.   “You don’t have to do this.  I’m not—I wouldn’t ask, and I’m not dissatisfied or bored, Hannibal, I—“

“Nor did I insinuate that you were.”  Hannibal lets his tablet fall against his thigh in favor of cupping Will’s cheek, the glide of his palm slow against the grain of stubble until the heel of his hand reaches the jut of Will’s collarbone.  The weight of his hand there is heavy and warm, encompassing, so intrinsically tied now to Hannibal’s penchant for holding him there when his hands are hot with blood.  The predatory glint in Hannibal’s eyes when Will’s gaze catches his is more settling by far than his prior false innocence.  “Do you not indulge me?”  Unerringly, his thumb finds and presses into the bruise that colors Will’s throat, a mottled patch of purple.  Hidden by the covers and the way he’s curled half on his side, Will’s cock twitches. 

“I’m not sure indulgence is the right term.  I don’t let you bite me out of altruism.”  It’s more direct than he’d meant to be, and entirely worth it to see Hannibal’s eyes darken, to feel his hand flex. 

“And if I want to please you, would that be altruism?  Would it be so wrong if it were?  All our actions are arguably selfish, even the most seemingly selfless.  I was honest in saying that I’ve done this before for my own benefit and enjoyed it, but if I hadn’t and took it up only to please you, it would be because the pleasure to be found in fulfilling your desires is far greater than any potential discomfort—and I won’t be uncomfortable, I can assure you.”

Will’s strung so tight his cheek and shoulder ache with the undue stretch, his tension released suddenly in movement that brings him up to Hannibal’s height.  His grip is tight in Hannibal’s hair, his kiss fierce and readily met, and he knows before he even shifts far enough to do it that when he straddles Hannibal’s lap, he’ll find him hard. 

He knows, too, that when they’re finished, when he’s asleep and Hannibal’s lying next to him in the dark, he’ll add the blue pair to his order before he places it. 

++++++++

The first time Hannibal wears them, they don’t talk about it at all.  Well.  Not _really_. 

Hannibal leaning in close in their booth at dinner and murmuring against the shell of Will’s ear that imagining Will’s teeth on the laces over his cock is making him hard _does not_ count as talking about it—particularly not when the rest of his dinner conversation is maddeningly, deliberately innocuous.  The first course hadn’t even arrived when Hannibal chose to inform him, and though Will fights hard to keep from showing the depth of his distraction, he knows he drinks a little more wine a little more quickly than he normally would. 

Halfway through, Hannibal shifts in his seat and sighs.  The tilt of his head betrays a lick of pleasure up his spine and it’s all Will can do not to drop to his knees under the table and get his mouth on him.  At the very least, the urge to rise and kiss him until that pleasure turns audible under his tongue is palpable.  Instead, he catches Hannibal’s hand where it rests on the table and suggests they order dessert.  The barest drag of his thumb up the line of the scar on Hannibal’s wrist earns him a shiver that Will soaks in like water through sand. 

Later, when he’s finished eating his pie with incredible deliberation, Will isn’t gentle when he shoves Hannibal up against the car, his teeth sharp against his neck when Hannibal catches his breath and offers to drive.  For his counter offer, Will yanks open the back door of the car.   To be honest, it’s less an offer than it is insistence, but Hannibal’s eyes are black and wide, the faintest flecks of red glinting at the edges when they catch the light as he slides willingly into the car. 

They’re in a damn parking garage in the back of the Hyundai Will insisted they buy to be less conspicuous and doing this here because they can’t wait is both filthy and a little ridiculous, full of the impatience and recklessness most commonly associated with  youth and novelty.  Two years past their departure from the cliffs, he can’t really blame novelty anymore, but he really, really doesn’t care. 

Hannibal’s so hard when Will gets his pants open that the silk is wet in patches, the ribbon laces distorted and pulled tight over the bulge of his cock.  Will pants quietly in the dark above him, running hot though he’s hardly touched Hannibal at all.  Sprawled across the seat, Hannibal tips his head back and moans, as if the rake of Will’s gaze past his rucked up shirt to the slacks pulled down around his thighs is in itself a caress. 

Will wants to take his time, to tease him until their mutual hunger reaches a pitch too hot and violent to ignore, but it’s not the place or the time and Will can already feel his heart pounding in his ears from the moment he gets a grip in Hannibal’s belt loops and bends to mouth at the exposed strip of skin along his belly.  His skin’s deliciously warm and soft there, and the tickle of lace trim brushing Will’s chin is a delightful reminder of all that’s his to unwrap as he chooses.  His teeth catch on the loop of the ribbon, worry it lightly before he releases it without a tug substantial enough to relieve any of the pressure on Hannibal’s dick.  The silk grows wetter against his cheek as Hannibal leaks, his hips jerking with a soft whine when Will turns his head to taste the salt on the fabric with the flat of his tongue. 

His glance up nearly undoes him—Hannibal’s nails are digging into the leather of the seats, his chest heaving, his silk paisley tie in matching hunter green and  white flipped up haphazard and unnoticed against his shoulder.  The thought hits Will that anyone could walk by now and see him like this, the Chesapeake Ripper shameless and hungry, whining for Will’s mouth on his cock in the back of a car. 

Will’s nails bite into Hannibal’s thighs just above the restricting waistband of his slacks until he feels blood well, his mouth hot and wet and clumsy as he nips at the ribbon in his attempts to tug it loose.  He’s uncoordinated in his haste, too distracted by the temptation to suckle the head of his cock through the cloth when he finds it.  Between the two, he only succeeds in loosening it enough for Hannibal’s cock to bulge further against the fabric, but it’s enough.  He’s been half hard at least all through dinner, maybe since he put the damn things on, and he comes in them with Will sucking hard beyond the silk, his tongue nudging insistently at the sensitive ridge beneath the head, his foreskin retracted. 

He gasps as if startled, his hips bucking up sharply, and though Will sucks him through it his cock is pulsing so hard by the time he’s finished with Hannibal that it borders on pain.  He frees himself from his  slacks with fumbling hands, his breath harsh and uneven, louder now than Hannibal’s in the contained quiet of the car.  His palm presses to Hannibal’s ribs to hold him down, and he jerks himself off quick and rough, coming in thick stripes over the tousled mess of uneven ribbon and wet silk between Hannibal’s legs.  Beneath his hand, he feels Hannibal’s groan more than hears it, low and utterly satisfied. 

Their kisses are deep and slow, calming.  When Will’s hand no longer quivers against Hannibal’s throat, he pulls back, wipes his mouth on the back of his wrist, and makes himself presentable enough to get in the driver’s seat. 

They’re all the way home before his heart stops hammering.  

++++++++

When they _do_ speak about it again, it’s in the dark, in the soft lull of 4:00 AM peace.  Will’s had no nightmare, but after coming back from a trip to the bathroom at 3:00 he’s only dozed in and out, Hannibal’s radiating warmth comfortable and familiar where he can just feel it along the side of his right arm, within reach.  If he thought it’d let Hannibal rest he’d get up and go to the kitchen for tea or whiskey, but Hannibal’s been awake for the last half hour at least; Will knows the difference in his breathing, now.  He’s learned to differentiate a lot of things in the last two years. 

Will sighs, eyes closed against the blue glow of his bedside clock.  On the floor, he hears Ida pick up her head, lay it down when he doesn’t rise.  Kermit is snoring, soft, whistley little sounds.  “When you asked me…”  The words feel clunky on his tongue, wrong and heavy though he knows how to use them.  “It wasn’t just the silk that caught my eye.  It was…the combination.”  Not that the silk on its own hasn’t proved quite effective—Hannibal can probably still smell sex and sweat on the scrap of black silk tossed in the corner hamper, worn tugged low beneath his balls when he bent Will over the bed and took him without taking them off.  Will can still feel the way Hannibal had teased him first, the rub of slick fabric against the cleft of his ass.

Even spent and tired, his cock twitches at the memory. 

Hannibal shifts beneath the sheets, strong, calloused fingers coming to curl light against the inside of Will’s elbow.  His middle finger traces in staccato, and Will knows without thinking too hard that he’s feeling out veins by memory on flat skin, idle and fond.  As many times as he’s been drugged against his will, it shouldn’t be comforting.  He tips his arm anyway, allowing better access. 

“The combination of materials, or of material and function?”  Hannibal’s voice is scratchy with sleep, endearingly heavy. 

Will stretches his leg out until his calf brushes Hannibal’s, his toes curled against Hannibal’s ankle.  Even there, Hannibal’s warm.  He’s always warm.  “Material and function comes closest, I guess, but it’s…it’s more a question of access and exposure.”  They talk more freely these days than they did in Hannibal’s office, but even so Will knows that in the light his cheeks would be showing a hint of red.  He feels the heat of it, a vague flush, but here everything is in greyscale, all revelations muted.  Here, he can let his mind flash back to the thoughts he’d had in the shower days ago, the vivid image of Hannibal in a silk nightdress not so different from the one Will’d seen in the store—jet black, the tent at the front obscene, his hands white knuckled on the kitchen counter alongside an abandoned knife as Will hemmed him in from behind.  Will swallows, his palm itchy and hot as he presses it to his thigh.  “It was the thought of you like that, on display for me in something I could push up and have you anywhere.” 

Hannibal hums, the pillowcase rustling as he shifts.  Will feels his eyes, and stubbornly keeps his own closed.  “Objectification must have always been hard for you.  I imagine there’s great temptation in the thought of being able to exercise it without recompense.”  Hannibal’s breath dissipates against his shoulder, close and warm.   “You know being the object of your desire won’t offend me, and I certainly don’t shy from rough treatment.” 

No, he doesn’t.  A burst of memory flashes behind his eyes from their third month in Mexico, Hannibal’s mouth bloodied, the taste of it on his tongue, the give of skin beneath his teeth.  Will’s eyes snap open.  “You’re more than an object of desire, Hannibal.” 

Hannibal’s fingers curl around the bend of his elbow, clinging, still too sleepy to be firm.  There’s an ache that doesn’t settle in Will’s chest but sinks instead to his abdomen, throbbing beneath his scar.  “Nevertheless, it’s part of what I am to you, now, and it’s a role I can easily fill.”  His thumb smoothes against the rougher skin of Will’s elbow, circling.  “In your fantasy, do I protest when you take advantage of the opportunity before you?” 

Will sits bolt upright, his hands raking quick through his hair, the heels of them coming to rest with too much force against his eyes.  The sudden cold of the room on his back after the warmth of their feather bed is jarring, but it’s Hannibal’s hand against his spine that makes him jerk. 

“Will—“

“ _Don’t_.”  He sounds so incongruently wounded that the ache in Will’s stomach doubles, nails pricking against his scalp as he drags back through his curls again, brushing them back from his eyes.  His hair has grown long, down here.  It didn’t take him long to discover for certain that was exactly how Hannibal preferred it—long and wild, easy to tangle his fingers in when they kissed.  “I wasn’t saying—this isn’t about wanting to hurt you; _Jesus_ , I—“

“Protest doesn’t inherently mean pain, and even if it did we’re discussing fantasy.  The illusion of ambivalence toward consent when the participants have agreed can be freeing, even cathartic.  Regardless of our current circumstances, the truth of our history involves much I’ve done to you without your consent.  If you wanted—“

“I don’t.”  The dip in his voice is anger or hurt; even he can’t be sure.  He’s not even sure whether the hurt is his or Hannibal’s, not when all he knows is the visceral resurgence of what he’d felt watching Hannibal from behind glass, his eyes gleaming until Will twisted barbs thick enough into him to quell the light.  A sickening swig of pride, chased by grief so strong he’d thrown up after he left, not in the parking lot but later, on the side of the road, gravel digging into his knees.  There was a dead snake in the grass amongst the glass and styrofoam, its spine broken, contorted backwards and discarded like a scrap of rubber. 

He’s cured himself of the sickness of chasing equal damages with Hannibal, though the treatment came only from exposure and it took too long to take.  If he’s honest, if he looks at it long enough with eyes open, it becomes clear that by the time he finished, he’d tipped the scales. 

Hannibal’s lips are dry and warm against his shoulder, the faintest scratch of stubble on his chin as he nuzzles against Will’s back.  “Alright.  But no matter how realistically played a fantasy may be, we can always divide it from reality.  There’s no role I’d be unwilling to fill for you, if you needed.  You should know that.” 

He does, though the reality of it is terrifyingly intoxicating, too much power in hands he knows damn well aren’t worthy to wield it.  He isn’t noble enough to have that kind of control over anyone, but if he has to have it, at least they are something of a world unto themselves, these days.  A contained reaction.  Will’s forearms rest against his knees, his hands flexing.  “Enthusiastic, honest participation.  If I stop you in the middle of dinner to pull the hem up and fuck you at the counter, you take it, but you’re as hard for it as I am.  Maybe more.” 

Hannibal’s exhale is heavy, the deep breath he takes after slow and deliberate against the nape of Will’s neck.  For half a second Will feels utterly exposed and freezing, the dizzying phantom sensation of the chill of snow wet beneath his feet, the blunt teeth of the stag cropping at his hair, the line of his jaw. 

Hannibal’s arm wraps around his shoulders, and the pull of the Virginia winter fades. 

“That won’t require a departure from reality, only the proper materials.”  Hannibal’s smile curves against his skin, heating him down the line of his spine and out, radiating.  He tugs on Will’s shoulder, light, the pads of his fingers spread along the scar tissue from the kitchen in Minnesota where they first saw blood on each other’s hands.  “Come back to sleep.  We’ll talk about it in the morning.” 

He doesn’t sleep until past sunrise, but the puff of Hannibal’s steady breathing against Will’s throat after he drifts off is enough to keep him from longing for the whiskey in the kitchen.  By the time he wakes up, Hannibal is already in the kitchen, making egg and spinach quesadillas.  He says nothing of it, and Will kisses him in gratitude on his way to the fridge for orange juice.  He takes Hannibal’s phone from his pocket and pulls up a rendition of Ciaja’s harpsichord sonatas to play through the tinny speakers while he sets the table.  When Kermit licks Hannibal’s toes Hannibal acknowledges him in fond and quiet Spanish and Will pauses to watch, his breath held, the china impossibly heavy in his hands. 

++++++++

For a discussion that’s progressed in stages over weeks in stops and starts, Will shouldn’t really be surprised that the first time a version of his fantasy comes to fruition, it’s equally unexpected.  There’s no dinner plans made or alluded to, no mysterious shopping trips.  Hannibal’s been no more or less cryptic than usual, and though he _might_ have read a little more into the way Hannibal very gently declined his advances earlier in the day, he’d just assumed he wanted time to read his book.  Another year or so ago and he might have caught on to _something_ , there, but the unique domesticity they’ve fallen into has both lulled him and continued to surprise him.  He doesn’t sift for Hannibal’s motives with the dedication of a gold panner, these days.   He knows the way Hannibal looks at him when he wakes up with his head on Hannibal’s thigh after having drifted off on the couch, and it’s the only glimpse of underlying motive he needs. 

It reminds him sometimes of the statement he made to Jack years ago now, of Hannibal’s lesser rudeness purged from him by his indulgence in murder.  Being loved in his entirety hasn’t purged Will’s nightmares or his anxiety, but it’s done a fairly decent job reducing them.  He knows who he is, now; he knows what he is.  He can have the ribs of a man he killed for breakfast, and still make sure their elderly neighbor has someone to take her to pick up her medications.  The components are his entirely to combine and rearrange as he chooses; murder and mercy. 

Will’s hot when he comes inside from spending the heat of the day out in the sun, his shirt so wet with sweat it’s sticking in the center of his chest and down the line of his spine.  The trellis he’s been planning since last December so they can grow their own passion fruit is finished now, ready to take the plants once they outgrow the little pots and horizontal wires he rigged from them on the patio.  The symbolism in literally putting down roots in this place isn’t lost on him, though he wonders what it says about his optimism in their ability to evade notice that he wonders sometimes if the first fruits of his labors will go to someone else’s lover in a kitchen that’s no longer Hannibal’s. 

To put it out of his mind in the yard, he’d grabbed a frisbee and run Ida until her tongue lolled a full six inches or more out the side of her mouth, the curl of it tickling his arm when she leaned into him.  With no sign of Hannibal, he’d given little thought to letting her nuzzle all into the side of his shorts after she drank from the hose, her narrow muzzle leaving a splash pattern surprisingly clumsy and widespread for such a creature that looked so dainty. 

Now, in the midst of Hannibal’s spotless kitchen, he can’t help but let choke a little on his own water with laughter at the mess he knows he is.  Winded from yardwork and playtime, smelling of dog and sweat and wood shavings.  He doesn’t have a real frame of reference for what Hannibal’s face might be if he could see him now, but he feels like something Hannibal would probably do his best to keep off the furniture, even though he gave up that mission with the dogs long ago.  With any luck, he’ll be done with his shower before Hannibal even finishes his book and leaves his study.  Maybe they’ll cook dinner together. 

With his half formed plan turning over in his mind, he doesn’t even take the time to check the study for Hannibal but bypasses it entirely to head to their room, Ida abandoning him halfway through the house to go lay with Kermit on the cool tile floor of the library between shelves.  He’s got his hand on the hem of his shirt as he passes through the doorframe, idly deciding whether he wants to hang his shirt over the bar at the foot of the bed and let it dry a little before he tosses it into the hamper, but that choice goes undetermined, wiped clean when his mind falls blank. 

Rather than reading in his study, Hannibal is stretched out on the large chaise lounge by the window, a drink with ice and what might be crushed mint weeping condensation off the glass and over his fingers.  It’s amazing Will even notices that, really, because he only takes in Hannibal’s outstretched arm for about half a second before he’s too fixated on the rest of his body for his eyes to drift.  The silk gown he wears is cut longer than most Will’s seen, though it suits Hannibal’s frame so perfectly it can only have been tailored.  It ends midway down his thighs, though it’s clear that it’d fall longer if it weren’t bunched a little by the way his right leg is bent and resting against the window, the silk rumpled and pooling a little at his hips.  The deep, rich black seems to suck the light while the little silver pinstripes wink in it when Hannibal shifts, subtle and beautiful, a bright contrast as fitting as the splash of red lace that lines the hem and the low cut, curving neckline. 

Hannibal might have spoken; he’s not sure.  He _is_ sure that he hasn’t gone this instantaneously hard since he was thirteen.  His hand clenches around the hem of his shirt and he yanks it up and over his head to drop behind him to the floor.  If Hannibal wants to make a fussy face over that, he can do it after Will’s finished with him.  The clink of Hannibal setting the glass down on a coaster as Will crosses the floor draws him a little out of the dizzying swirl of his own sudden lust and fully into the present, to the look on Hannibal’s face that’s a little too bright eyed and eager to look properly smug. 

He reaches out to hook his hand behind Will’s thigh the minute he’s close enough, rubbing with a light sigh at the soft skin just under the high hem of his shorts.  “I’d thought you might come in sooner.  Earlier, you—“

Will relishes the pleased hum Hannibal’s words fade into as he interrupts him with a kiss, Hannibal’s cheeks smooth and soft against his palms, freshly shaven.  The taste of the mojito he’s been drinking lingers on his tongue, white rum and mint, and Will wonders if it’s his first or his second, if he’ll be just a little more pliant under Will’s hands.  He groans at the thought, leaning in closer until one knee rests on the cushion, pressed against the silk at Hannibal’s hip. 

When he takes a breath, Hannibal’s hand grips hard against his thigh, keeping him close.  His head dips to tuck in against Will’s neck, and though it’s far from what Will would have expected the soft moan that leaves him as he scents along the line of Will’s throat is unmistakable.  He smells like sweat and dog and wood and vine, and yet there’s nothing but _want_ in the lave of Hannibal’s tongue over his pulse, the quick clench of his fingers as his right hand rises to hook in Will’s belt loop and give a clear tug on his shorts.  He’d known Hannibal liked him bloody and roughed up after a kill; that was a given, but like _this…_

Will curses under his breath and climbs onto the lounge above Hannibal, one thigh slotting in between his.  His movement tugs at the silk, pulling it tighter over the hard line of Hannibal’s cock that’s suddenly visible, standing out in stark contrast to the fluidity of his gown.  Will thrusts against Hannibal’s hip, and though his cock is still constrained behind briefs and shorts, Hannibal moans when he feels the bulge of it nudge at him.  For a moment it’s all Will can do to keep rutting against him, his mind turned to static, breathless and ravenous as they kiss.  It’s so fucking good, every bit of it from the cool silk heating between his thigh and Hannibal’s cock to the drag of Hannibal’s hands along his back.  His nails leave tracks on the skin that he traces with the skim of knuckles on the way back down, his grip solidifying again only when he reaches Will’s ass and palms it through his clothes. 

If they keep this up, he’s going to come in his fucking pants. 

Will’s hand goes to Hannibal’s thigh, guides it to spread wider as his hand creeps higher, bunching silk until he reaches the juncture of thigh and the cheek of Hannibal’s ass to find himself unimpeded.  The swell of his ass is warm and slick and uncovered, the cut of the gown in back rising in what is undoubtedly a graceful arch to bare him entirely if Will were to see him from behind.  In his haste to get a solid grip his fingers slip on the generous lube that wets the cleft of his ass, and the full image he must have presented hits Will with painful force. 

Hannibal in here alone, kneeling on the chaise lounge in the sunlight, one hand pressed to the cushioned arm, the other curved back behind him to where the gown exposed him, fingers slick as he worked himself open.  Without Will here, he’d likely have been quiet about it, his only tell a faint increase in his breath, a tightness at the corners of his eyes.  The bob of his cock, jutting out and brushing against the hanging silk, a tease of sensation that’d make his hips want to jerk. 

Will’s cock throbs, and he swallows, a helpless, strangled sound rising from his throat as he bites at Hannibal’s chin. 

Hannibal’s hips roll, his knee knocking against the glass as he struggles to spread himself wider.  “I wanted to be ready for you.”  His voice is thick, the arousal in it alone enough to spur the shiver that skates along Will’s nerves, up his spine and out across his scalp.  As if he knows, Hannibal’s fingers curl in his hair, chasing it, splaying and curling again when Will gasps.  “Yours to take as you pleased.”   

Will presses the pad of his finger against Hannibal’s entrance to hear his breath hitch, to feel how easily his body gives at Will’s touch, loosened and eager.  This’ll last about five minutes, but then Hannibal probably knew that already, calculating how ready he should be before they started, how close to bring himself before he settled in to wait. 

Five minutes might be an exaggeration. 

It’s not easy to maneuver on the chaise lounge with Will stubbornly refusing to get up and lose contact but he manages to tug on Hannibal’s arm and shift them both around until their positions are reversed, until Hannibal straddles his hips and Will’s shorts are jerked open in the front, his cock still trapped behind the cotton of his briefs.  Hannibal is so thoroughly ready for him Will can feel the wet heat of him through the fabric as Hannibal settles his weight and grinds down, beautiful in his obvious pleasure at the sensation.  His mouth drops open as he pants, the silk sticking at the head of his cock, accentuating.  The sound he makes when Will takes hold of him beyond the fabric to stroke him through it is high and sharp, the kiss he leans forward to take rough, need bleeding from him in the way he licks into Will’s mouth like a man starved. 

It’s a full minute at least of fumbling and cursing in half syllables between kisses before Will gets his cock free and pushes up into him, but the ramping frustration of that short wait vanishes at the thrill of burying himself into Hannibal in a single thrust, easy and smooth and fiercely hot.  His hands wander, too aimless in their want of _everything_ to settle—fondling the heavy line of his cock with its easy glide behind silk, kneading at his thighs to feel their flex, the flash of pleasure in the illicit that unexpectedly comes at the feeling of the hem of Hannibal’s gown tickling his wrists as he pushes it high enough to feel out the knob of Hannibal’s hip bones with the stroke of his thumbs. 

Above him, Hannibal arches and moans, meets Will in every thrust, and he’s more beautiful chasing his pleasure with the sun shining on the glint of sweat at his collarbone than Will could ever describe, somehow lovelier still when the red lace strap begins to slip on his shoulder from his movements.  He’s breathtaking, and if he wasn’t so fucking close Will would watch all day, but he can feel the tension mounting at the base of his spine.  Will licks his lips and tastes Hannibal, forces his eyes open when they immediately flutter to close in pleasure.  Hannibal’s going to come first, and Will wants to see him when he does. 

Will shoves the hem of the gown up and over Hannibal’s cock, groans when his cock bobs back to leave a wet patch, the soft, flush skin beautifully displayed against black and silver.  Will takes him in hand, squeezes once before he starts just to hear Hannibal moan, to feel the way he clenches around Will where they’re joined.  His strokes are quick, focused.  With every slide of his hand the tip of Hannibal’s cock grows slicker, liquid dripping down to wet Will’s fingers.  His hips jerk on a hard thrust, his lip caught between his teeth as he groans. 

“Shit, that always makes me want to taste you.”  The words are heavy, breathless and rough, and some part of him knows even as he says them exactly the effect they’ll have, but his heart still skips and races when Hannibal’s hands flex against Will’s shoulders as he shudders and comes.  Before he’s even finished, Will’s snagged the back of his neck in his free hand and pulled him down to kiss him, deep and thorough, his grip so tight in Hannibal’s hair his fingers ache. 

Will feels the last pulse leave his cock, and though he strokes a moment longer because he knows Hannibal still craves contact even as he grows sensitive, he’s so eager to have the taste of Hannibal’s release on his tongue he has to struggle to hold back the sharp tug in his stomach that almost has him letting go too soon.  He breaks their kiss with the intention of turning his head to lap at his hand, but Hannibal beats him to it, latches on and sucks Will’s fingers down with decadent deliberation.  Will comes with a cry that feels yanked from his chest, final thrusts hard and erratic, driven by lust so thick he’d swear he feels it rise through his throat, coating his tongue. 

When he does get his chance to relish Hannibal’s taste it’s in his kisses, long and gradually lighter until they’re mouthing loosely at each other between ragged breaths, teeth nipping gently at swollen lips.  When he has the chance, Will reaches blindly until he catches Hannibal’s glass on the floor and drains the last of his mojito, more water than rum but it’s cold and it blends marvelously with the headiness that came from Hannibal’s mouth that still lingers. 

Hannibal rises up just far enough to let Will’s cock slip free, winces and sighs and resettles a little lower.  Will can feel Hannibal’s heartbeat against his stomach, steady and content, faster for all that than it ever is when he kills alone.  His chin rests on Will’s chest, the spark in his eyes bright with adoration, bolstered by a smile that touches the corners of his eyes before it reaches his mouth as Will rakes a still messy hand through his hair. 

“I think we should do this in the kitchen, next time.” 

Hannibal turns to kiss the inside of his wrist in answer, and Will feels the curve of the smile that’s worked its way down, soft and real and utterly Will’s. 

 

 


End file.
